Writing Exercise 4

Word: Catastrophism

slick Buffalo roads and the haze
of a night time rain illuminated by white headlight
seven flips into the long grass ditch
an early labor
an emergency caesarean
in the nearest hospital with nurses in white keds

a husbands white face pocked with new scars
watching like a doe
as his bride turns pale without much blood

miracle
divine or odds
a mother holds her pasty newborn
in the soft glow of moonlight

An Observation

hearing Greg talk about God
and his love flowing through us all the time
and how I should be a faithful bride
and reject the conventional wisdom of Religion
will always make me sob like a widow
at 3 in the morning

Writing Exercise 3

Word: Punctilious

for joseph:

today
on the driveway and street
you and i
adoptive little brother
created a mural with pastel chalk
of boxy robots, breastless cheerleaders,
gillless mackerel, and noseless heroes

the laws of physics ignored
shapes were meaningless
and fingers were dusty
as you and i
my summer friend
sniped womp rats on a paved Tatooine

The Garden [V2]

a warm morning
she walks the cold dew of the grass to the garden
with bare calloused soles

she rests on her knees at the edge of the bed
bare hands working slowly
blending earth and flesh
a woman as a mother

with wisdom of depth her
pained fingers bury the bulb of an iris
into the warm soil
with wisdom she will wait
for a birth that is sure to come

careful fingers pack the soil

her wrists are moist and black
as the sun dips west
knees groaning as she
stands to feel a soft whisper from the east
with closed eyes her fingers move
like boughs
to her bare belly

Writing Exercise 2

for emilee


Word: Nutmeg

walking in the moon shadow of the old sawdust mill
where our grandfathers all worked for years
you let your cigarette hit the glossy pavement
and tell me with infant eyes
with catholic eyes
that you need India
where you have read that the air smells like spice

The Garden [V1]

a warm morning
she walks into the garden with bare feet and hands
cold dew on the grass
soft clumps of dirt clinging to her toughened soles

she rests on her knees at the edge of the bed
hands working slowly
blending earth and flesh
a woman as a mother

strong lucid fingers pushing bulbs of an iris
deep into the soil
with a wisdom of depth
and birth that is sure to come

soft careful fingers pack the soil

her wrists and forearms are moist and
black as the sun dips west
her calloused knees are worn
she stands to feel a soft whisper from the east
closing her eyes her fingers move
like boughs
to her belly

Writing Exercise 1

Word: Morae

in a room alive with electronic whispers
and nervous ticks
i gaze out my window

eyes unfocused like Loveless
hands moving with Baoding
mind moving like Mangum

in an instant i feel God
and in an instant it is gone

Roadside Romantic [V4]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten relics
lost to the avaricious fingers of time

there is a rusted out car older than me
the way your father is older than you
a car that once had nicotine stained hands on the wheel
and warm impressions on the seat
like a glowing ember resting in the snow
now it lies dormant and alone in a field of weeds and grass
with a for sale sign perpetually in its windshield

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gorge below a wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo from a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear
only change direction
depth and disposition

an abandoned gas station on the side of the road
with chipping paint and a roof collapsed by a fallen tree
the windows are covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against any dumpster
written on the facade with black spray paint
temporarily closed
in lazy looping words like you would find
in a child's handwriting book

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no building to become a blaze for miles
no destruction to give it life
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shepherd for these forgotten relics
ushering them into the memory of a
roadside romantic

The Road to the Reservation [V3]

leaving the stagnant air of your humid room
and the oily smell of the city behind
as a silhouette against the setting summer sun
we head for the reservation
with windows wide
your nicotine stained hands on the wheel
my tired writer eyes on the long shadows in front of us

wind blows in harshly
it carries a hint of escape on it
billowing through our loose clothes
creating ripples in the fabric
the moisture on our skin amplifies every sensation
a shiver runs up my spine and arms

when the hard industrial cityscape opens up
the air is thick with the smell of a sweating earth
each powerful breath across the vast fields of tall grass
creates a lazy sway
a drowsy dance

your hand leaves the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
slightly losing control
you hold it between your lips a moment
savoring or hoping or regretting
then igniting and engulfing us both with smoke that slides
out past your still tongue
the car quivers rhythmically for miles as you take each drag

we reach the reservation at dusk
you buy your cigarettes while i wait out in the car
watching other people with nicotine stained hands pull into the dirt lot
we turn to leave with sunlight waning
the suspended glow of day receding in front of us

we roll up our windows as a raw cold creeps into our bodies
and darkness creeps between the trunks and branches of the pines
we watch the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the white noise from the engine
and the muted crackle of your burning cigarette

so many cars on the way back had their lights on
and so many did not

Roadside Romantic [V3]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten relics
lost to the avaricious fingers of time

there is a rusted out car older than me
the way your father is older than you
a car that once had nicotine stained hands on the wheel
and warm impressions on the seat
like a glowing ember resting in the snow
now it lies dormant and alone in a field of weeds and grass
with a for sale sign perpetually in its windshield

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gorge below a wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo from a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear
only change direction
depth and disposition

there is an abandoned gas station
with windows covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against a dumpster
the paint is chipping and a fallen tree has collapsed the roof
written on the facade with black spray paint
temporarily closed
in lazy looping words like you would find
in a child's handwriting book

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no building to become a blaze for miles
no destruction to give it life
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shepherd for these forgotten relics
ushering them into the memory of a
roadside romantic

Roadside Romantic [V2]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten objects
lost to the greedy fingers of time

there is a rusted out car older than me
the way your father is older than you
with a for sale sign hanging in the windshield
i always expected the signs to be blown away
by a strong wind coming through the opening where a door should be
the next time i drove by
but it was there all summer

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gorge below a wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo of a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear
only change direction
depth and disposition

there is a run down abandoned gas station
with windows covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against a dumpster
the paint is chipping and a fallen tree has collapsed the roof
written on the facade with black spray paint
temporarily closed
in lazy looping words like you would find
in a child's handwriting book

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no building to become a blaze for miles
no destruction to give it life
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shepherd for these
forgotten objects
ushering them into the memory
of a roadside romantic

Reservation Purpose [V1]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten objects
lost within the lushly sprouting land

there are rusted out cars older than me
with for sale signs hanging loosely in the windshield
i always expected the sign to be blown away
by a strong wind through the doorless passenger side
the next time i came by
but it was there all summer

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gaping gorge with the wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo of a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear and only change
direction and depth and disposition

there is run down abandoned gas station
with windows covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against a dumpster
the paint is chipping and a fallen tree has collapsed the roof
there are lazy looping words on the facade written in black spray paint
temporarily closed

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no sign of man for miles spare the road
a relic of the hopes of the past
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shephard for these
forgotten objects
ushering them into memory

The Road to the Res [V2]

leaving the thick stagnant air of the humid room
and the oily black smell of the city behind
as a silhouette against the setting sun
we head for the reservation
with windows wide
your nicotine stained hands on the wheel
my tired writer eyes on the long shadows in front of us

wind billows in harshly
blowing through our loose summer clothes
creating ripples in the soft flowing fabric
cooling our wet salty skin and sends a trail
of goosebumps up my arms and spine
it carries the hint of nature on it

smells of moist orange earth flood the car
when the hard industrial cityscape opens up
to vast fields of tall grass swaying lazily
and the scent of wet mossy rocks rises up
as we pass out over the gorge with the content stream far below
cutting calmly through red bedrock

your hands leave the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
you hold it between your lips a moment
savoring or hoping or regretting
then igniting and filling the air with smoke that slides
from out past your still tongue
the car quivers rhythmically for miles as you take each drag

we reach the reservation at dusk
you buy your cigarettes while i wait out in the car
watching other people with nicotine hands pull into the dirt lot
we turn to leave with the sun falling below the horizon
the suspended glow of day receding in front of us

dark brings on cold and we roll up the windows
watching the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the white noise from the engine
and the muted crackling burn of your cigarette

so many cars on the way back had their lights on
and so many did not

The Res 1 [V1]

leaving the oily black smell of the city behind
as a silhouettes against a setting sun
and blurred by exhaust
we leave for the reservation
with windows wide
in search of cheap cigarettes and cheap inspiration

wind blowing through our loose summer clothes
creating ripples in soft flowing fabric
the rush dissipates the warmth that clings to our bodies
from the thick stagnant air of the room
and carries whispers of nature on it

smells of moist orange earth flood the car
as the cityscape opens up to vast fields
and wet mossy rocks as we cross the
feeble wood of a rotting bridge over a quiet stream
that cuts through red bedrock

your hands leave the wheel
to search for your last cigarette in the pack
you hold it between your lips a moment
before igniting the air with smoke that quickly escapes
out the window and drifts up through the pines
the car quivers rhythmically for miles as you take each drag

we reached the res at dusk and got cigarettes
then turned to leave with the suspended glow of day receding in front of us
dark brought on the cold and we rolled up the windows
we watched the slow ascension and vanishing of tail lights
over distant hills in silence
only the hum of the engine and breathing

so many cars on the way back had their lights on
and so many did not

Res ideas

leaving the oily black smell of the city
windows down on the long straight road to the res

the smell of wet moss rocks
as you cross the bridge

smell of orange wet earth

quiver of the car as you light up
another cigarette or drink of coke

tail lights slow ascension up a
distant hill

cold air rushing around us as
the warmth of the room leaves us
shivers up my arms and spine
leaves goosebumps

then a warm breath comes off
the pines with the smell of timber

lighter grey sky and silhouette black
pines with the glow of a faraway
city on the horizon

it was night on the way back
it was cold
we rolled up the windows

so many cars had their lights on
and so many didnt

________________________

night lightning storms
several strikes per second
lighting up the sky and making day

each flash reveals the immensity
of the clouds ahead of us
separated and independent giants

the power gets knocked out of
the city and our headlights
were all that remained on the
road to the res

wind thrashed at our sides and
pushed us onto the yellow lines as
thunder shook our windows
inside the hot breath of the
engine across my face and chest
closed my eyes

im protected
and back in the womb
when i woke you had fresh cigarettes
and i was reborn

____________________________

the long narrow road to the res
impossibly narrow and straight
a streak of pavement through pines

wind blowing through our loose clothes
creating ripples in fabric

rusted out cars for sale on the
side of the road

a small wither creek

an abandoned run down gas station

looming pines creating a wall or
a shephard

a lonely trampoline in a field

a forgotten fire hydrant

a purposeless stop light